


Break the lock if it don't fit

by lesbianjackrackham



Series: lungs [1]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Dom/sub, M/M, everyone in si-5 is fucked up about sex, everyone is a fucking disaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-11 08:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13520460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianjackrackham/pseuds/lesbianjackrackham
Summary: Doug Eiffel spends six months in prison in a drunken stupor and fucking with the speaker system.Warren Kepler shows up on his six month anniversary and offers him a job.(A Doug Eiffel joins SI-5 AU)





	1. Chapter 1

Doug Eiffel spends six months in prison in a drunken stupor (who knew prison had booze?) and fucking with the speaker system.

Warren Kepler shows up on his six month anniversary and offers him a job.

A week later, Eiffel is working for Goddard Futuristics, in the fucking Black Ops division. He's the guy in the van, and he helps them spy and figure stuff out, and honestly, Eiffel isn’t sure what he’s doing here, but it beats prison. Major Kepler has dumb stories but he’s cheerful. Eiffel understands nothing Maxwell says, and Jacobi doesn’t talk to him at all, just a lot of grunting.

The killing doesn’t bother him so much, he’s been here before with the military. Here he gets to keep his hands clean—he just points them where they need to go, gets them in and out safely, lets them do… whatever it is that they do. Until one day he needs to step up, step out of the van, pulls out his gun, and saves the crew.

Kepler calls him into his office afterwards. Eiffel is expecting a scolding, but Kepler pours him a drink. Eiffel declines. Then Kepler grabs his dick through his pants

“What— what are you doing?” He asks, as Kepler leads him back against his desk.

“Rewarding good behavior,” says Kepler.

And Eiffel— well, “lets it happen” is not the right amount of agency, both too little and too much, but he comes on Kepler’s hand, and then Kepler makes him clean it up (makes? He stuck his tongue out to lick between Kepler’s fingers, make sure not to miss anything) and then he’s dismissed.

He ducks off into the locker room, where Jacobi is sprawled out on a bench. Eiffel opens his locker and starts to look for the extra pair of pants he swore was in there.

“Aww, did puppy get a treat?” He flinches, but doesn’t look back.

“What the hell is his deal?”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect chocolates and flowers.” Eiffel doesn’t respond, just continues moving the junk around his locker in the hope that pants will magically appear.

“That’s not what I—”

“Look, you did a good job today. Enjoy it. What, is that not your thing? You could have said no.” Eiffel slams his locker shut.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that? I’m pretty sure people don’t tell Kepler no.”

Jacobi laughs. “They really don’t.”

“You’re seriously okay with all of this?”

“Hell yeah, a fucks a fuck. Is it the gay thing? It’s not gay if the balls don’t touch.”

“You’re phenomenally missing my point.”

“Which is?”

“If I wanted my dick grabbed like that I would have stayed in prison.”

He turns and Jacobi’s in his space, hands to himself but bracketing him to the locker, all the same.

“How do you want your dick grabbed?” He asks, head cocked and flicking his eyes down Eiffel’s body.

“No,” he says.

“No?”

“No. This is me saying no.” He holds Jacobi’s gaze, but the other man just shrugs and steps aside.

Eiffel doesn’t flee, but he leaves quickly, and it’s an uncomfortable drive home.

\---

Nothing changes. Eiffel stays in the van, directs his team ( _his team_ ) and keeps them from getting killed. Kepler tells his stories, Jacobi grunts, and and does his job. He works with Maxwell to spoof radio signals, and then he uses the trick to call the cellphone of someone moments from intercepting her and Jacobi, stalling long enough for them to get away.

Kepler calls him back into his office and he—

Well.

It’s a cheap psychological trick, Pavlovian, but he’s not above it, or a knowing hand, tight and sure. It’s out of reflex and partial curiosity that he reaches for Kepler’s pants, but he’s swatted away with a laugh. After he finishes (he’s loud, can’t help himself, and anyway he thinks Kepler likes it,) and cleans up (he hates himself, and yet, he likes watching Kepler watch him) he goes to shower and finds Jacobi waiting for him yet again.

“That was you saying no?” He asks. Eiffel ignores him, and shoves his clothes in the locker. There’s a different tone to Jacobi’s voice that he can’t help analyzing, even as he tries to ignore him. It’s not derision, or concern, but—

“Are you jealous?” Eiffel blurts out, and because he’s entered the fucking Twilight Zone, he’s completely naked when he says this.

Jacobi gives him another one of those long looks and says, “no.”

“You are,” Eiffel says, because he is, and Jacobi is a godawful liar, overcompensating with a sneer too big for the situation. But Eiffel doesn’t want to keep having this conversation naked, really doesn’t want to be having this conversation at all, so he just says, “dude,” and walks towards the showers.

Jacobi doesn’t follow him, which is a fucking relief.

Until the next time it happens. Like clockwork, step 1: Eiffel takes initiative, step 2: Eiffel gets a handy from his boss, step 3: Jacobi confronts him in the locker room.

Except.

Eiffel goes home instead, skips the locker room, and goes back to the functional studio apartment Goddard set him up with after they got him out of prison. He wasn’t allowed to bring any personal belongings, so instead it’s full of classical records and broken radio equipment he’s tinkering with. He’s already showered and is eating leftover pizza when Jacobi walks through the door.

“Did you break my lock?” He asks, before the other man has him backed up against the wall.

“What the hell is your deal?” Jacobi spits, and when Eiffel opens his mouth to respond, Jacobi kisses him.

Well, kiss isn’t the right verb. Jacobi _bites_ him on the lips, grabs a handful of his hair and yanks them together. He slots their legs together and Eiffel thinks _oh_ before shoving him back.

“My deal?” He asks, throwing his arms up. He’s still holding a half eaten slice of pizza in one hand, and Jacobi has crumbs on his lips.

Jacobi just says, “yeah,” and then turns to walk out.

“Oh fuck no,” Eiffel mutters, and rushes around to beat him to the door. “Nope. Not until you explain… what that was.”

“You need me to explain what that was? Wow, I guessed wrong about what you and Kepler were doing in the office.”

“Can you be a human? For like, one second?” Jacobi crosses his arms. “I’ll take that as a yes. I know what it was, but what was it for?” Jacobi opens his mouth to speak, but Eiffel puts a hand up to stop him. “And what I mean by that is— who is it _for_? It it for you? Or is this something you’re doing to… whatever the psychopath version of ‘pulling pigtails is’ with you and Kepler.”

“Can I talk now?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. I still don’t know what you’re talking about, or why you’re overthinking it. Like I said, a fuck’s a fuck.”

“A fuck is not a fuck,” says Eiffel. “There’s even a Dr. Seuss book about it.”

“I must have missed that one,” says Jacobi, and Eiffel, who is still holding the fucking pizza, uses it to direct Jacobi to his couch. He drops the crust on the counter on the way there. The couch is a little two seater, and they’re sitting closer than he wants to be for this conversation.

“With Kepler,” he says, wincing, “that’s not me. I don’t know who the fuck that is, but it’s not me. It’s not what I want, or what I like.”

“Sex?”

“Rough handjobs at work where no one talks about it or looks at each other or kisses each other,” he says flatly. “I like kissing. I love foreplay. I like touching, and stroking all parts of my partner’s bodies. I like sex that lasts more than five minutes.” Eiffel watches Jacobi as he speaks, and the other man thankfully continues to have a shitty fucking poker face (seriously? how is he a spy?) so he keep going. “I like sex that last for _hours_ , and staying in bed after everyone has already come, just because we _like_ each other that much. I have, unironically, called sex _making love_.”

Jacobi says, “sex with Kepler only lasts five minutes?” Eiffel just studies him, not even looking at anything in particular, but keeps his gaze soft enough that Jacobi starts to squirm once he notices. Jacobi is flushed and trying not to look like he’s avoiding looking Eiffel in the eye, and for a brief second Eiffel has a clear understanding of the situation. _He finds this shit kinky, what the fuck._

What the fuck, indeed. Eiffel is in the fucking Mirror Universe, and he might as well grow a goatee because he’s explaining vanilla sex to his coworker and it’s turning him on. And watching him is turning Eiffel on.

Mirror Verse. Seriously.

“Do you want to fuck?” He asks softly, and when Jacobi leans in he puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him. “You have to use your words,” Eiffel says, and he doesn’t know where this is coming from, his ability to control the situation, but Jacobi turns a deeper shade of tomato so whatever it is, it’s working.

“Fucking— yes,” he mutters, and Eiffel shakes his head.

“If you stay here, we’re not going to _fuck_. We will _have_ _sex_ , but it might not be penetrative sex. We are going to use each other’s first names, and then you are going to stay the entire night. I will make you breakfast in the morning, or we will go out for _brunch_. And you are going to use your words, and tell me what you like and don’t like, and then, I’m not going to do anything you don’t like. What do you think about that?”

Jacobi’s nostrils flare, and he glances over at the door. Eiffel takes his hand off of him.

“This isn’t one of those things where you can’t say no. If you aren’t interested in this, you can leave, and then I’ll see you at work and you can continue to be your usual uncheery self. It’s your choice.”

Jacobi says, “Jesus, Eiffel, fine.”

“Fine? I don’t want fine. I only want you here if you want this.”

“I want this, Eiffel,” and Eiffel is nearly 80% sure that he actually does.

“Doug,” he says.

“Doug,” says Daniel.


	2. Chapter 2

“Mr. Eiffel,” says Kepler, “would you step into my office?”

And here’s the thing: Doug has been here before, multiple times. But it’s two days post— that thing with Daniel, and they never got to have breakfast, got called out instead and then spent 48 hours extracting something from some secure building. Which is a same old, same old, no big deal (Doug doesn’t like to think about his life too much, for the obvious reasons, but the fact that his life now involves regular corporate espionage with the occasional murder? Weird.) Except the fact that Daniel wouldn’t talk to him actually means something now, now that Doug knows he cries when he comes.

So when he walks into Kepler’s office, he says “sir,” just as the other man closes the door.

“Nice work today, Mr. Eiffel,” he says, and then pours himself a drink. Kepler had stopped offering Doug a drink, which he’d consider considerate if he hadn’t gotten to know the man over the past few months. Still, Doug watches the amber scotch fall into the glass with a twinge in his stomach. “That was some fine work with the speaker system. A... creative touch.”

Okay— Doug _is_ proud of that move. Broadcasting an nuclear emergency alert to a bunch of wired up scientists is one way to get his people in and out quickly. He definitely didn’t steal it from Home Alone.

“Major,” he says, and Kepler raises an eyebrow at him. “If you don’t mind, uh, I’d actually love to grab a few hours of sleep before we’re called back in, you know how it is. Unless, of course, you needed me for something?”

“Needed you, Mr. Eiffel?”

“For something,” he adds, unhelpfully.

Kepler sips the whiskey. “What do you think my job is?”

“Sir?”

“My job, Eiffel. What is it?”

“You run Strategic Intelligence. Sir.” Kepler looks at him for a moment, and then raises his glass. _Oh no_ , he thinks.

“Take a look at this scotch, Eiffel. I like this scotch, a lot...” Doug doesn’t zone out, per se, but he stops listening for a minute, watching as Kepler caresses the bottle of scotch, trying to remember why he’s the only one considered an alcoholic.

“And yet—” Kepler says, and Doug snaps back to attention. “I take care of my things. This glass, this bottle— they’re safe in this cabinet, in my office, because only I have access to them. Unless of course, I decide to offer them up.” Kepler sets the nearly empty glass down and closes the distance between them, lifting Doug’s chin with his fingers.

“What I’m saying, Mr. Eiffel, is I don’t care what you and Mr. Jacobi do in your free time. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your work. Is that clear?” There’s a twinkle in Kepler’s eye that he doesn’t understand, but Doug holds the other man’s gaze as best as he can and swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Kepler says, and unbuttons Doug’s pants.

\---

He doesn’t even make it to the gym, just ducks around the hall and tries to bash the wall in with his head.

“Wow,” says Maxwell. “Whiskey speech?” He’s not entirely sure how long she’s been standing there, but he doesn’t bother asking.

“And then some,” Doug says miserably. He hasn’t made a dent in the wall, or his head, because apparently Goddard Futuristics’ walls are prepared for people trying to throw themselves through them. Lucky walls. He thinks he could fall asleep here if he just closed his eyes.

“Look,” Maxwell says. “I’m meeting Daniel and some others in a bit. You should join us.” Doug turns to her and presses away from the wall.

“Yeah?” He asks, almost hesitantly. They haven’t invited him out before.

“Sure,” she says. “It’s at a bar, though, if that’s an issue.” Doug runs a hand through his hair, suppressing a yawn.

“You know, I actually don’t know if it is.”

\---

It’s an issue.

The alcohol is in his fucking pores, camped out up his nostrils and sticky on every surface he brushes past. Doug is wired, bouncing up on his toes and chewing through the straw on his Sprite and grenadine, and it makes him think about Anne and how she loves these fucking baby straws, and he wants a drink so damn badly.

He chews the ice like he’s mad at it, like if he eats the right one it’ll taste right, and when he’s holding his empty cup he slips away from the conversation he couldn’t hear anyway, back to the bar. Maybe just the one, he thinks. Maybe it’ll be okay.

Except he’s being pulled away from the bar, onto the dance floor. Jacobi— _Daniel_ , laughs in his ear and tugs him by his belt loops, and then slips a hand into the back pocket of Doug’s jeans and squeezes his ass.

Doug says “whoa,” and Daniel laughs again.

“Dance with me,” he says, and steps right into his space so their bodies line up, Doug’s three inches on him leaving perfect space for Daniel to slot their legs together and _grind_. He doesn’t recognize the song but the place hums with it, and he lets his hands fall to Daniel’s waist and follows his lead, rocking back against him.

It’s good. It’s fucking _great_ , Daniel’s body pressed against him, his sweaty face pressed into Doug’s neck. Doug hasn’t showered in three days, doesn’t think Daniel has either, with the rough slide of stubble against his cheek. He strokes his hands up and down Daniel’s body, gives his hips a squeeze and Daniel whines and pulls him in tighter.

He hears someone whoop and it might be Maxwell, but Daniel smiles up at him, flushed and sweaty, and it’s the greatest thing he’s ever seen. Doug’s never seen him smile before, not like this. Not _happy_. He can’t help but smile back, and then they’re kissing, and he doesn’t know who closed the gap but Daniel tastes like salt, and heat, and whiskey. He chases the taste, one hand tucked into Daniel’s hair to tilt his head back and give him better access.

Daniel tastes like whiskey.

He pulls back with a gasp, twists out of the other man's arms and stumbles back through the crowd of bodies, out an emergency exit where a group of bartenders eye him warily. He bums a cigarette from one who looks at him sympathetically, and his hands are shaking when he lights it. Doug takes a long drag, letting the bitter taste settle his nerves.

The emergency door bangs open.

“What the fuck is your problem,” Daniel says, and nearly falls into him

“The fuck, man,” one of the bartenders mutter, and they all shuffle aside as a herd to find another place to smoke in peace. Doug can’t blame them. Daniel looks wild, ready to pounce, but Doug is sober (fucking _sober_ ) and thinks he can take him.

“You are a sad, strange little man, and you have my pity,” Doug says. He doesn’t mean to, really, but Daniel’s standing under a giant neon sign flashing ' _Woody’s'_ and there not much he can do about that.

“Fucking dick,” says Daniel, and he takes a swing at Doug, but the punch lands softly and he ends up with a handful of Doug’s shirt instead. “You dick.”

“Lower,” says Doug, and Daniel looks up at him and then drops to his knees, landing on the concrete with a audible _whack_. “Wait, no—”

“I wanna suck it,” he says, pawing at his jeans, and Doug is way too fucking sober for this.

“You’re too drunk,” Doug says, and Daniel laughs in delight as he pops the button to his jeans.

“I’m drinking for two,” says Daniel. He slides his hand inside of Doug’s pants and Doug bucks against the grip on his cock. He has a hand in Daniel’s hair (wait, when did that happen,) and with a strength he didn’t know he had, holds the other man still.

“Not here,” he says. “Daniel— not here.”

“Is this a rule?” Daniel looks up at him with his eyes blown out, and he licks his lips.

Doug licks his lips and says, “Yeah, that’s a fucking rule.”

“Oh.” Doug counts to three, and then counts to five, and then he lets go of Daniel’s hair.

“I’m going to call a cab,” he says, “do you want to go with me?” Daniel looks back at the door, at the club. “Maxwell is inside, along with a bunch of people whose names I don’t actually remember, but I’ll help you find them.”

“With you,” Daniel says. He’s still on his knees in front of Doug’s open pants, swaying slightly as he blinks up at him.

“Coolio,” says Doug. “Okay.”

He zips up his pants and pulls his phone out of his pocket, taking a moment to text Maxwell “ _i have him_ ” before calling for a rideshare. Daniel hasn’t made a move to get up from the ground, just watching Doug like he’s waiting for instructions. Jesus.

“Come on,” he says, offering his hand to help him up. Daniel takes it, and then stumbles up into him, grabbing another handful of shirt to steady himself. At this rate, Doug thinks he’s going to lose the damn shirt. Mostly because he doesn’t think the other man can walk straight, he lets Daniel lean on him as they make their way out of the alley and into the waiting car.

\---

Daniel keeps his hands to himself until Doug opens his front door (the lock is still broken, thanks, Daniel,) and then he pounces, attaches himself to Doug’s neck and pulls them towards the bed.

“Hold on,” he tries to say, because really, Daniel is too drunk for this. And as much as he wants to follow the other man down onto his mattress, they haven’t talked about _this_ , at least, not when one half isn’t blitzed out of their mind. But Daniel is _fast_ , slipping out of his shirt and pants as soon as Doug steps away. He reaches for Doug’s pants again, but he’s able to grab the other man’s hands to stop him.

“Just kissing,” Doug blurts out, and Daniel’s face falls.

“What the fuck,” he says, twisting away, “I wanted to suck your dick. You said I could.” Doug bites his tongue and counts to fifteen, gently leading the other man back to sit on the bed.

“In the morning, sweetheart, in the morning,” Doug says, stroking a hand across Daniel’s face. “I’ll make you breakfast and you can suck me off okay? Would you like that?”

Daniel says, "shit," and looks away.

“Use your words, Daniel,” he says, and there’s that rush again, a steadiness in his voice that he doesn’t recognize. But Daniel relaxes into it, and rubs his face against Doug’s hand.

“Yeah, I want it,” he mutters into Doug’s hand.

“Okay. Okay, just kiss me now okay?” He says, and then he’s got a lapful of nearly naked Daniel Jacobi, who kisses him briefly and then tugs at Doug’s shirt.

“Uh,” he says, and then flushes and looks away. Doug smiles, wiggles his way out of his shirt, and then tosses off the side of the bed. He wraps an arm around Daniel’s middle and, completely inelegantly, scoots them higher on the mattress. Daniel hasn’t turned his head back, so Doug runs his free hand across ribs and down his back like he’s calming a nervous animal.

“Just gonna hold you like this, okay sweetheart? Do you like that?” Daniel whines and buries his face in the crook of Doug’s shoulder, and Doug can’t help but to pull him back and kiss him again, and again. Daniel doesn’t taste like whiskey anymore, and Doug loses himself in the heat of his mouth as they fall back against the pillows.

\---

Doug wakes up alone, and there’s no trace of Daniel anywhere in the apartment.

 _Dead dove, do not eat_ , he thinks, and turns over to go back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which everyone continues to have issues and not address them at all
> 
> find me on tumblr @lesbinanjackrackham
> 
> [chapter art](https://tanias-shameart.tumblr.com/post/171494415863/youre-too-drunk-doug-says-and-daniel-laughs) by @taniushka12


	3. Chapter 3

Eiffel gets shot.

It’s not a big deal, actually. There’s no moment where he dramatically bleeds out as a result of throwing himself in front of a bullet, and no one cries over his limp body. Instead, he’s just too slow getting back in the van and a bullet grazes his shoulder. And then he sprains his wrist as he jumps into the moving vehicle.

He gets an entire two days of medical leave, which Doug is pretty sure is only because they completed the mission, and he spends them in his apartment watching movies and trying not to look at the bottle of Oxycontin on his counter.

(It’s also two days of no one grabbing his dick or dragging him into bed and then ditching him in the morning, so that’s a fucking relief.)

Somehow this all translates into him being invited to Kepler’s place for “team dinner,” which was apparently going on without him this whole time.

“I didn’t get invited until four months in,” Maxwell says as they drive over to the apartment. “Even though they told me it didn’t exist until I showed up, which is totally a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” says Jacobi from the backseat. Maxwell had called shotgun, and somehow Doug, with only one working arm, is in charge of driving them across town.

“You had a designated spot at the table, _Daniel_.”

“At least I can sit at a table, _Alana_.”

“The couch and I are very happy,” says Maxwell, but she adjusts her seat all the way back so she can smack Jacobi. Doug watches in the rearview mirror as they prod at each other, taking care to hit each other’s scrapes and bruises until Jacobi says, “Fine, yeah,” and they settle. Maxwell unbuckles her seatbelt and crawls into the back with Jacobi, nudging his spread legs to give her room to sit.

“Anyway,” she says, buckling herself in, “I’m just glad I don’t have to DD tonight. No offense, Eiffel.”

“None taken, Miss Daisy,” he says in a horrible Morgan Freeman impression.

He hears Maxwell whisper, “that was a reference to something and not a stroke, right?”

“You fucking child,” says Jacobi, and she hits him again.

They pull up to a normal looking apartment complex, and Maxwell directs him to a parking spot near the entrance. He follows them into the building and adjust his sling, trying to make the straps look settled against his his shoulder. There’s an elevator, but they bypass it and move into a nondescript stairwell.

“Hey,” he says, briefly touching Jacobi’s arm. “How does this work? Are there like, rules I should follow? Shoes on or off?”

Jacobi pats him on the back and says, “calm down dude” and then bounds up the stairs, taking two at a time.

Doug stares after him. “Did you just dude me?

The door is unlocked when they arrive, and Jacobi makes a beeline for what Doug assumes is the kitchen as he follows Maxwell in slipping off his shoes and hanging his coat in a nearly empty closet.

He has no idea what he’s expecting for Kepler’s apartment, but this wasn’t it. The place is too normal, with high ceilings and wood accents. There’s a fucking picture window and a reading nook, and he goes over to investigate the book resting against a pillow.

Maxwell grabs his arm and says, “better not.”

They follow the sounds into the kitchen, where Kepler is stirring something in a gigantic pot and Jacobi is draped over him, standing on tiptoe with his chin resting on Kepler’s shoulder.

Doug tries to say “uh,” but nothing comes out.

“Eiffel,” says Kepler, delighted. “How’s the arm?”

“Better, sir,” he says. Maxwell sits down on a barstool at the kitchen island across from the stove and starts spinning it it slow circles. Doug takes the seat two stools away from her, men’s bathroom style. Kepler shrugs Jacobi off and moves to the other end of the counter. While he starts chopping onions, Jacobi wanders over to the fridge.

“Alana, want a…?”

“Yeah,” she says. Jacobi pulls out two bottles of unlabeled beer and then hands one to her. Then he looks at Doug.

“Hey, did you pick up soda?” He calls back to Kepler, who’s added the onions to the pot.

“It’s in there,” he says. Jacobi goes back to the fridge, and after poking through it for a moment, pulls out two cans.

“Red or white?” He asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Uh, red,” says Doug, and he accepts the Coke with a sweaty hand. He struggles for a moment to pop the tab one-handed, but Maxwell takes the can from him, opens it, then gives it back without looking at him, still twisting in her chair like some strange facsimile of a dance. He tries, but can’t even catch her eye to thank her.

Doug drinks his soda and looks around the kitchen. It’s open concept, a term he only knows from magazines somebody donated to the prison, with large marble countertops and a five burner range. It looks like something out of one of those magazines but it also looks lived in, cookbooks with wrinkled book jackets lined up on a shelf and a stack of tupperware drying next to the sink. _A person lives here_ , he thinks, and then has the most uncomfortable realization that that person is Warren Kepler.

Kepler says, “twenty minutes or so,” and Maxwell sides off her stool and walks out of the room. Jacobi doesn’t move, just continues to hover around Kepler, stepping aside only when Kepler needs the stretch of counter he’s leaning against. Doug sips his soda, and doesn’t watch them. He doesn’t watch Jacobi inch closer to Kepler the longer the other man stays still, or when Kepler puts his hand out and Jacobi knows exactly what to put in it—a spoon, a towel, a container of seasoning.

He’s not afraid of Virginia Woolf, but this is probably the most awkward dinner party he’s ever been to.

Five minutes pass (he counts them on the oven clock) and then he slips out of the room to find Maxwell watching TV on the couch, some police procedural where the murderer of the week is also the special guest star. He sits down in a chair off to the side, and tries to imagine Kepler picking out furniture. It’s not a great image.

“Hey,” says Maxwell, and when he looks over she’s scooted over on the couch, making room for someone else to sit. She cocks her head at him, and then back to the couch.

He gets up and sits back down on the couch. As soon as he’s settled, Maxwell turns onto her back and throws her feet in Doug’s lap, tucking them between his legs. Doug sits very, very still. He wants to put his soda down because it’s cold and he can’t change hands, but he he doesn’t see a coaster so he holds it. He doesn’t pay attention to the show, just sits there, too aware of his own heartbeat and the pulse of pain in his wrist until Kepler calls for them.

Dinner is… well. It’s chili, which is easy enough to eat one-handed, and to Doug’s surprise it’s really, really good. He hasn’t had a home cooked meal in… a while, let’s put it that way. Way before prison, at least. (His own cooking doesn’t count. He can do eggs, and sandwiches, and a mediocre french toast that Anne loved, but he doesn’t make that anymore, not for himself.) Kepler also made cornbread in the form of tiny muffins, which are served in a small wicker basket.

He sits at the table with Kepler and Jacobi, while Maxwell, as promised, eats on the couch. Kepler is at the head of the table with Jacobi on his left, and Doug has a mild panic attack trying to figure out where to sit until Jacobi kicks out the chair next to him, without even looking up from his chili.

Kepler fills the silence with a story about how he got the recipe, something about fighting off chupacabras in south Texas, and he and Jacobi share a quick look, a subtle eye roll and that part’s good, it’s normal, and after dinner they tag team cleaning up while Kepler packages the leftovers for them to take home. It’s all surprisingly domestic, and there’s an odd comfort when they all go back to the living room. Maxwell turns the TV back on and tugs him and Jacobi onto the couch so she can lay across them both (he’s honestly not sure why that’s comfortable, but it leaves him pressed into Jacobi, so that part’s nice.) Kepler sits in the chair with an unlabeled book, the one Doug noticed earlier, and reads.

Lulled by a full belly, the murmur of the television, and the warm body next to him, Doug closes his eyes. When he opens them, it’s because Maxwell bumps his arm with her foot while she stretches. He winces, and when he readjusts to being awake he notices that it’s been nearly an hour. And that Jacobi is no longer sitting on the couch.

“Wanna head out?” He asks Maxwell, who yawns and nods. Doug stands up and cracks his neck, then looks around for Jacobi.

He wanders back into the kitchen, then out onto an unexplored porch where he finds Jacobi and Kepler, speaking softly. Jacobi is smoking a cigarette, the tiny flame glowing between his fingers. The men turn when he approaches the screen door, and he hovers there, by the barrier, unsure if he’s allowed to cross it.

“Uh,” he says, running a hand through his hair, “thanks for dinner, sir.” Kepler nods at him. “Maxwell and I are going to go home. Jacobi, you want a ride?”

Jacobi takes a long drag from the cigarette and then lets out a mouthful of smoke.

“I’ll call a cab later,” he says, tapping the ash out over the side of the balcony. Doug glances at Kepler, who’s looking at Jacobi with a casual possessiveness that sends an icy crawl down his spine. They’re not touching, but Doug sees it, sees _them_ in a burst of technicolor so startling that he sways forward and has to catch himself on the screen door.

“Okay,” says Doug, tongue thick in his mouth. Jacobi takes another draw from the cigarette. He should leave now, he thinks, but he can’t stop watching Jacobi bring the cigarette to his lips, follows the line of his throat as he sucks down the smoke. He doesn’t look at Kepler, _specifically_ doesn’t look at Kepler, who he feels watching him.

Kepler doesn’t need to look at Jacobi. Jacobi is standing right there.

He pushes back from the door, and pivots to walk away.

“Eiffel,” Kepler calls after him, and Doug breaks a land speed record turning around. “Don’t forget the leftovers.”

He nods stiffly, and leaves them.

Maxwell already has her shoes on and is waiting by the door with two containers of chili. He doesn’t say anything while he puts shoes on, or on the walk out of the building. When they get in the car, Doug asks for her address.

“Just take me back to the lab,” says Maxwell. “There’s some stuff I want to work on.”

“It’s almost midnight,” he says, and she just raises her eyebrows at him. “Right.”

They drive in silence. It’s a clear night, and the the world feels still and empty as he pulls onto the highway for the drive back to base. He’s still not used to living this close to the ocean, where the wrong turn or a rough wind could put you right into the water.

“Does Kepler ever…” He trails off and glances at Maxwell, “with you?” She barks out a laugh.

“Oh god no. He’s knows that’s not my thing.”

“He never tried something?”

“No. That’s not his style.” She sighs and fiddles with the air vent, flicking it open and closed. “Look, Kepler has a way of offering you exactly what you want and then making you work to keep it. That’s why he’s insufferable, and also incredible at his job.”

He lets that hang for a moment. “What did he offer you?” Doug asks. Maxwell just gestures in front of them, as the main Goddard Futuristics entrance comes into view.

“This,” she says, as if it wasn’t clear. “And this.” She holds up the chili.

“You’re here for the chili?”

“It’s good chili.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”


	4. Chapter 4

Another day, another. Another.

Whatever.

He’s fumbling to latch his pants when Kepler says, “oh, just one more thing, Mr. Eiffel.” Kepler reaches back to his desk, picks up a single piece of paper and hands it to him. Eiffel reads the document, and then he reads it again.

“What is this,” he asks flatly. Kepler chuckles, and takes a seat behind his desk.

“It’s your obituary.” And it certainly looks like his obituary, just three short lines printed off the Houston Chronicle website.

_Douglas Fernand Eiffel, age 30, died in his sleep on September 4th at Harris County Jail. He is survived by his daughter, Anne Katherine Garcia. A small service was held at the Norfolk Cemetery in Houston where Eiffel is interred._

“I’m not… dead,” he says carefully, because weirder things have happened to him in the past few months. If this is some kind of Sixth Sense moment, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Well. You’re not,” says Kepler. “But we needed a body for the funeral.”

“There’s a _body_?” His voice is registering somewhere between fury and a high pitched squeak, but he doesn’t care. He’s frozen, half leaning against the wall, and Kepler’s sitting there, smiling like his hand doesn’t still smell like Eiffel’s come.

“Of course.”

“But—” He stops short, the question of why dying in his throat. He knows why. If he’s dead, there’s no way for him to leave. No way for him to go back. (He doesn’t even think the word home, because home is with Anne and he fucked that one up already, he lost that chance months ago.)

_He is survived by his daughter..._

“Don’t you worry about that daughter of yours,” says Kepler, reading his mind. “Goddard gave you an excellent life insurance payout.” Eiffel wants to punch him. He crushes the paper in his fist, looks past Kepler at the blank wall behind him and counts, does the goddamn breathing exercise he learned off the internet. It’s not particularly helpful.

“It had to be in jail?” He asks thinly, and Kepler chuckles again.

“What, did you think they just let people like you out of prison?”

There’s a dull ringing in Eiffel’s ears, and he distantly notes a pain in his jaw from clenching it so hard. Kepler looks down at his computer and starts typing. Eiffel stands there for just a beat too long, trying to get control of his heartbeat.

“Is there anything else, sir,” he grits out, and Kepler waves him off. It’s only when he’s wandered back to his car that he realizes that his fly is still down.

\---

It’s Jacobi that finds him later, sitting hunched over the bar and scraping peanut shells into the varnish.

“Am I chipped, or did Maxwell hack my phone?” He asks, as Jacobi takes the seat next to him. The other man shrugs and calls the bartender over.

“I find it’s better not to ask,” he says, and nudges Eiffel’s empty glass. “What are we drinking?”

“We’re not.”

“I— really?”

“Yeah,” says Eiffel. The glass has stayed empty for the hour or so he’s been here, after he gave a very nice bartender named Joellen his credit card and asked her not to serve him. She’s been steadily refilling his bowl of peanuts, which he’s grateful for, and happily ignoring his attempts to meld his face to the bartop.

“Uh, okay,” says Jacobi, as the bartender wanders back over. “I guess I’ll have what he’s having.”

“You don’t have to babysit me just because you lost the coin toss. Joellen has me covered.”

“Rock paper scissors. Also, Maxwell is on her way, she just needs to wrap stuff up from Tulsa.”

Doug grunts. “What was the plan?”

“We were going to play it by ear. Some form of scraping you off the floor and putting you to bed.”

And Eiffel’s not drunk, not even a little, but he says, “were you going to join me?” He’s still folded over the bar, so he doesn’t see Jacobi’s reaction, just hears the other man clear his throat awkwardly.

“Thought you had a rule about drunk guys,” Jacobi says carefully. Eiffel shrugs, and uses the movement to push himself up from the bar. He brushes peanut shell crumbs off of his face, but doesn’t turn to look at Jacobi.

“I’m not drunk now,” he says. Eiffel picks up his empty glass, holds it in his hands for a moment. For the sonofabitch he is, Kepler’s right about this. There is something to the feel of the glass, the weight of it. “I’m not drunk,” he says a little quieter, and squeezes the glass.

Jacobi reaches over and carefully, almost delicately, takes the glass from him, brushing Eiffel’s fingers in the process. Finally, Eiffel looks over at him. Jacobi’s eyes are soft, under a cluster of dark eyelashes, and he didn’t notice Jacobi’s eyes before, not like this. Not when his face is very close to his own.

Eiffel’s not drunk but he feels drunk, tense and sweaty with it, like his entire body’s a live wire someone left sparking in an abandoned house. Like if Jacobi touches him again he’ll get shocked too. The anger from earlier hasn’t had a chance to burn out, still eating at him, and he wants to do something stupid.

He looks at Jacobi, and he wants to do something really stupid.

Eiffel tilts his head, and Jacobi’s nostrils flare.

“Hi,” say Maxwell, and they both snap away, startled. “What are we drinking?”

“Not drinking,” they say at the exact same time. Maxwell raises her eyebrows.

“Cool. Then can we leave? The floor is sticky, and I don’t like sticky places when I’m sober.”

“Fair enough,” says Eiffel. He waves Joellen over. “Hey, can you just charge whatever you think is fair on my card for the nuts and Baby-Sitters Club?” She just waves him off.

“Nah man, just rock on with your sobriety,” she says, handing him his card back. Eiffel flushes a little.

“Thanks.” He turns back, where Maxwell and Jacobi are making complicated faces at each other. “Now what? I mean, I’m fine if you wanna...”

Maxwell says, “do you play Mario Kart?”

\---

See, he can play Mario Kart, but Maxwell was talking about a hacked version she put together that includes different parts of Mario Kart, Mario Party, Portal, and Space Invaders.

“When did you get the time to make this?” He asks after losing for the fifth time. Eiffel watches as Jacobi places a portal in front of Maxwell’s spaceship, sending her into a mini game.

“Oh, I built this when I was in high school,” says Maxwell, rapidly smashing a button of the controller. “It’s low tech, but still fun.” Jacobi, who is somehow playing as a Bomb-Omb, explodes.

Maxwell restarts the game again. Eiffel picks up his controller and doesn’t do the math to figure out how old he was when Maxwell was still a high schooler.

Her apartment is set up that the “bedroom” is actually an office, full of tools and computer equipment, and the three of them are in the main living space where Eiffel assumes Maxwell sleeps, when she remembers to. Eiffel has a large futon to himself, a plush mattress folded up into a couch, and Jacobi is on the floor beside him, elbows propped up on a long coffee table covered in papers, a bowl of Chex-Mix, and seven badly stained coffee mugs. Maxwell is balancing precariously on the footrest of a threadbare recliner, crouched into a ball, and it looks like at any moment she might spring forward to leap at the television.

Eiffel takes his racecar into space, and is immediately killed by a swarm of aliens.

“So, how does it feel to be dead?” Maxwell asks as he sets down his controller and flops down onto his back.

“Not... great,” he says, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Pretty disturbing, actually. I have a grave. There’s someone _else_ in it.”

“Yeah, that part was weird to see,” says Jacobi. Eiffel rolls onto his side and stares at the back of his head.

“You went to my funeral?”

“No, I went to my funeral.” Jacobi’s car explodes again and Maxwell restarts the game, but Eiffel doesn’t reach for his controller.

“Wait, what?”

“I’m dead too. What, you thought this was just a you thing?”

“Yeah,” says Eiffel. Maxwell pauses the game, and they both turn to look at him.

“Oh, no,” says Jacobi. He grabs the snack bowl and climbs up on the couch, and Eiffel pulls his legs in to give him room. “A bunch of SI-5 agents are legally dead. Easier to do the job that way. I died… what was it, eight months in?”

“You were dead when I got here,” says Maxwell. “I’m not dead yet. ‘Distinguished scientist Alana Maxwell’ is still more helpful alive right now.”

“Kepler’s alive too. He has connections as himself that are too important to burn. Plus, dead people can’t lead departments.” Jacobi taps him on the the knee. “But you and me? We’re ghosts.”

Eiffel just says, “oh.”

“Oh man, no wonder you took it so hard,” says Jacobi. “You thought this was a punishment.”

“What, did you think I was just that naturally…” Eiffel waves his hand around his head and wiggles his fingers. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s trying to express, but they seem to get it.

“Kinda.”

“Yeah.”

“Gee, thanks,” he says. He sits up, dislodging Jacobi, and steals a handful of Chex-Mix.

“I’d think of it as a compliment,” says Maxwell. “You’ve only been doing field work—get out of the van field work—for a few months. Clearly, Kepler likes what he’s seeing.” Eiffel chokes on pretzel, and Jacobi, laughing, leans over to smack him on the back.

“Yeah, he’s made that clear,” says Eiffel, clearing his throat. “I thought it was… to make it easier to get rid of me.”

Jacobi says, “Doug, we’re spies. For a corporation. Of course they need to be able to dump us quickly.” He scrunches up his face and wags his finger. “Can’t have anything looking badly on the company!” He says cheerily. Maxwell laughs, a short and sharp thing.

“Was that supposed to be your Cutter impression?”

“Who’s Cutter?” Eiffel asks. Jacobi and Maxwell stare at him.

“Oh god.”

“He doesn’t know. How the hell doesn’t he know?”

“Who’s Cutter?” He asks again, a little louder this time.

“Cutter is our boss.” Jacobi says slowly. “He’s Kepler’s boss. He’s the boss’s boss. In one way or another, we all report to Cutter.”

“Really?”

Maxwell nods. “Cutter manages Rachel, who manages Special Projects.”

“That’s all the space stuff?”

“And then some,” she says darkly.

“Okay. So what’s the big deal?”

“Picture Kepler, but 20 times more manipulative, and 50 times more cheerful, but in a way that makes you want to kill yourself.” Eiffel grimaces.

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah,” says Jacobi, “and there’s also the not unlikely possibility he’s listening and watching us at all times, so.”

“Really?” They both nod solemnly. “Okaaaay. I will avoid him.”

“Nope,” says Maxwell. “Now that you’re dead, you’ve stepped up to the big leagues. Cutter will come sniffing around soon enough. Also, we were talking about him. He knows that sort of thing.”

“So he’s like Voldemort,” he says, and Jacobi nods.

Maxwell says, “...I never got to read those. Or see the movies.”

“ _What_ ,” says Eiffel.

They all end up on the futon, which Maxwell puts down into bed so they can all fit comfortably on their stomachs propped up on a billion pillows. Somehow Eiffel gets sandwiched in the middle, two warm bodies pressed against his sides. Jacobi hooks an ankle over his leg, and Maxwell steals his arm for a pillow. With the lights off, he can see that Maxwell has glow in the dark stars on her ceiling.

“You’re a wizard Harry,” he growls along with Hagrid, and both Jacobi and Maxwell smack him, but Jacobi leaves his hand on his Eiffel's arm, just below his wrist, for the rest of the movie.


	5. Chapter 5

Apparently, dying means that he has to learn how to kill things better.

Eiffel doesn’t like the gun range. For a company that’s all about the future, the range is surprisingly simple, with paper targets and earmuffs that remind him of basic training, of being eighteen and terrified and thinking _maybe this is something I could be good at._

He wasn’t. He was better at radios, better at tracing communications being bounced around the desert, but they gave him a gun anyway because more than anything they needed boys with guns and they didn’t much care what he hit, as long as he fired. Back in Texas that meant something, all _God Bless America_ and _Thank you, son_ , and he hated it, hated it so much that he went back twice because he didn’t have anything else to do but drink.

The problem is, he started drinking too. What can you do, when everyone wants to buy you one?

(Here’s one that’s been keeping him up at night: what’s the difference between dying for your country and dying for your company? Answer: Goddard has better benefits.)

(Here’s another: what’s the difference between getting fucked by the United States Military and getting fucked by Goddard? Answer: Goddard actually gets him off.)

Kepler says he has to be better about taking the shot, and Eiffel doesn’t think about the asterisk at the end of that sentence, the _again_ that should be tacked on.

So he reserves the range, books all the lanes for himself and hopes no one notices that he wants to be alone.

The handgun is heavy and the paper targets have faces, real human faces instead of a silhouette, which is some kind of sick joke of a psychological test, but the worst part is that it gets to him, and his first clip is off center and he stops in the middle of the second one because his hands are shaking.

“God fucking damn it,” he mutters to himself. Eiffel takes off his earmuffs and hangs them around his neck. “Come on, Gunslinger, this is not rocket science. Regular psychopaths shoot people everyday. Firing a gun is just like riding a bike, probably, and I mean, you’ve done it recently, well, winged a guy, at least, so now we’re just working on aim.”

“It usually helps if the gun is in your hand,” says Kepler, and Eiffel would love to say that he doesn’t jump, but he does. Kepler is wearing that stupid half smile when he turns around, eye crinkled like they’re sharing an inside joke, and Eiffel can’t help but glare at him.

He doesn’t ask, “what are you doing here,” because that’s a stupid question, and stupid questions are against rules one through infinity of the Super Evil Operatives Handbook, but instead says, “I reserved the range for myself,” which is an equally stupid statement, but not a question.

“Show me your stance,” says Kepler. Eiffel stares at him for a second, then turns back around and picks up his gun. Kepler _tsks_ and steps closer. “What the hell is the army teaching these days?”

“Air Force,” he bites back, and then Kepler touches him, rests a hand on his shoulder and he quiets.

Kepler pinches the muscles at the base of his neck, digs his fingers into his skin until Eiffel relaxes and drops his shoulders. He slides his hand down Eiffel’s back, almost clinically, and Eiffel lets Kepler move him, straighten his back and turn his hips. Kepler leaves a hand on Eiffel’s side and squeezes lightly, but Eiffel holds the position, breathing shallowly.

“Adjust your feet,” says Kepler, and uses his own leg, pressed against Eiffel’s, to guide him to the right footing.

Eiffel thinks, _I could turn the gun and kill him._

Then he thinks, _no I couldn’t._

First, it would be logistically impossible. Kepler would notice the movement and have him on the ground immediately. Second, and even more horrifying, is that he couldn’t do it. He doesn’t want to do it.

Not because Eiffel is incapable of shooting someone.

Because it’s Kepler.

( _Great job today, Eiffel_ , is voice slipping through his brain, and he thinks, fucking Pavlov, but it’s more than that, sense memory beyond a warm hand on his cock: spaghetti and garlic bread, and the woodsmoke smell of an apartment pretending to be a home; sweat and stale air of a stakeout and a record hour and a half of Questions Only; the tang of blood and a concerned frown adjusting the blankets on a hospital bed;

and how does loyalty grow, unknowingly tended to in an unkempt garden, blooms breaking through the soil and taking root there, sure and solid?)

At his back, Kepler asks, “how does that feel?” Eiffel nods, light headed. Kepler’s body is a comforting weight, and he feels his body sway, chasing it, when Kepler pulls away to put Eiffel’s earmuffs tight over his head. “Safety first, Mr. Eiffel,” he says, and then steps away completely.

Eiffel can barely see the target, but he adjusts himself to the memory of Kepler’s direction, takes a slow breath, and then fires.

(Here’s another one: what do you call dead guy who stands by the person who killed him? No, seriously. He’s asking.)

When the clip is empty, he lowers his arms and clicks on the safety. Kepler calls the target back, and they watch it flutter towards them with a mechanical hum. When it settles, Eiffel counts silently. Five center mass, two in the head, one in the neck.

Eiffel stopped breathing a while ago and his head is nearly empty, just a low buzzing drowning out all the things he’s trying not to think about and the thoughts he was trying to grapple with. He places the gun on the counter and touches the target gently like it’s something delicate, a piece of silk light between his fingers.

“There we go,” says Kepler.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this shit is in no way over. sequel forthcoming.
> 
> come yell with me @lesbianjackrackham on tumblr
> 
> [art](https://tanis-drawings-2point0.tumblr.com/post/174838561925/and-eiffel-lets-kepler-move-him-straighten) by @taniushka12

**Author's Note:**

> this was going to be the "Doug Eiffel joins SI-5" fic that I wasn't writing, and yet here we are. 
> 
> find me on tumblr @lesbianjackrackham


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